In Spite of Me
by LadyElla64
Summary: Through the means of a journal, Snape recalls his unlikely romance with an amazing woman named Sophie.
1. Driven to a Journal

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Author's Note: For those of you who read "The Fortunate Accident" I'd like to say that I definitely intend on finishing it. I didn't abandon it for this story, as Ricky feared, and will not abandon it for any other story.

This is my first try at romance outside of the Lily/James world, so forgive me if it's not as good as your usual Snape story. The idea intrigued me and I felt that since I've been cooped up in Lily/James-land for a couple of years, it was safe for me to venture into the equally interesting world of Snape.

Pertaining to updates...we'll have to see about the space in between. This, as well as being my first Snape story, is my first shot at juggling fics. I'll find a balance, I'm sure.

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EDIT REGARDING HALF-BLOOD PRINCE: First and foremost, I was right. I was SO right. For those of you who've read it, you know what I mean. I knew it for MONTHS before the book came out. I'm sickeningly proud of myself.

Regarding the story and why I think it still has a possibility (**BUT DO NOT CLICK UNLESS YOU HAVE READ HBP!**): http / www. livejournal. com /users /garland graves/ 3409. html (Hopefully it'll work, as I've broken up the link. If it doesn't work, feel free to e-mail me.)

I still believe, after reading the theory in the link, that Snape is fully capable to love. (Though I was definitely in the "completely shocked and not thinking much" stage after my first read.) If you do not, this is fine. Go find a story better suited for you.

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Dedications: Oh, who else?

For Ricky, who provides unconditional support. You're the best cheering squad anyone could ask for.

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Prologue: Driven to a Journal

This woman has driven me to a diary. No...not a diary; that's too effeminate. Journal. She's driven me to a _journal_. Actually, the shocking thing is not so much the journal, but the woman herself. I never thought I'd have a woman--girlfriend, wife, whatever. But she pried her way into my life and wormed herself into my heart. I had little say in the matter.

She _had_ to be charming, _had_ to be clever, _had_ to make me laugh and enjoy myself. Though most of the laughter I conducted in private. While I was with her, her sense of humor seemed odd and even corny at times, but afterward while reviewing our conversations in my head, I couldn't help but chortle at the things she said. Some of the comments she made were just...astoundingly hilarious. I never let on to her, though. I exuded the air of one who found his companion to be an annoyance; she saw right through that. A person can't keep it a secret when he's so elated about seeing someone, no matter how convincing a facade he thinks he has.

I don't know which of us fell for the other first. She claims it was her, but I'm not so certain. Deep down, I've been fond of her since our first conversation. I am much more than simply fond now. Fond doesn't _begin_ to cover it. Her presence is my _fuel_. Yes--that's a start.

She's the only family I've had who's ever tried to love me. My father grew to hate the poor witch with whom he had a child and my mother and he together hated me as a result. She had loved my father greatly before my birth and he had supposedly adored her as well. He turned on her right quick, however, as soon as I entered the picture. His affluent, Muggle relatives despised the idea of a half-wizard mutt in the family and rumors of disinheritance sprang up; my father couldn't have that. He dropped my mother and me like hot potatoes and ran off with his money to find a more suitable, Muggle bride who would produce the children both he and his family desired.

I think my mother was more heart broken than anything. But if she didn't hate me, she did a splendid job concealing any feelings of motherly affection she might have possessed.

Back to my family. My _real_ family. And before you run off thinking I had some sort of incestuous relationship, allow me to clarify. I call her family for two reasons, the first being that I love her as I've never loved any blood relative of mine; as you can imagine, my love for my mother evaporated rapidly. The second--equally significant--reason is that she's pregnant.

I know. I nearly fainted when she told me. It was an accident, of course. I would never have been so bold as to plan something like that so suddenly. Sometimes I still wonder if I'll be ready when the time comes. There's no bump on her belly yet, which soothes my nerves; I have much time left to prepare for a baby.

Mentally, naturally, as I have plenty of gold and bedrooms.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not opposed to the idea of a child. Especially with her. Every man just needs his time to brace himself. So in an attempt to relieve myself of the anxieties that accompany impending fatherhood, I'm creating this journal to relive the past few months--to firmly and vividly implant in my mind the reasons for which I love her.

Hopefully, I'll work up the courage one day to pass it on to my child. I want it to be aware of what its mother has done for me--how much she's helped me. And I want it to know how much I love her, so there'll be no questions, no uncertainty. I never want my child to fear that I'll leave it, as my father left me.

And if I don't work up the courage, it'll be one hell of a stroll down memory lane.

Her name is Sophie, the woman I love, and this is our story.

O O O


	2. A Crowded Pub

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Author's Note: Snape is so fun to write. I had more fun with this chapter than most of the others I've done in the past.

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Dedications: Have to cheer the boy up.

For Billy, who was disappointed to hear Ricky replaced him for first dedication.

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Chapter 1: A Crowded Pub

The first half of December eighteenth I spent in furious agony. It was winter hols at Hogwarts, of course, so I was off teaching. You'd think my day would have been a tad more enjoyable as a result, but inevitably I managed to forget an item or two in my office and therefore made an unexpected trip to the school's dungeons to retrieve them. I wish I'd had the sense to leave them there. A book of new antidotes and my old silver and green scarf, I believe they were, and I had somehow convinced myself that the holidays just wouldn't be the same without them.

The castle had been lavishly adorned for Christmas on the interior, and I found myself taking a peek inside the Great Hall at the towering tree Hagrid usually brought in. Flitwick--the old Charms teacher--had already seen to its decoration; popcorn streamers, ribbons, snow (none of that faux rubbish Muggles love so much--genuine flakes) baubles, and even a couple of snoozing owls. It was breakfast time for the handful of students still in school, so I made quick for the door to avoid annoying small talk and simpers of "Happy Christmas, Professor Snape!"

"Professor!" called a student from the Slytherin table. I froze, wishing I'd walked faster.

Resisting the urge to swear both loudly and profusely, I turned and gave the brown-nosing twit a wave. It was McDougal, one of the most annoyingly cheerful tossers I've ever met. He always tried to start conversations with me when the room grew too quiet for his liking or he chatted his partner into a coma. They weren't bearable conversations, either. He'd talk about _anything_--his pet toad, his mother, his next-door neighbor's goat; he only needed a topic with which he could begin.

"Having a pleasant holiday, Professor?" I noted the multi-colored jester's cap atop his head. Oh, the horrors of Christmas crackers.

"Sure am," I lied with a pasted smile. "Just marvelous. Yourself?"

He grinned. "Wonderful. Couldn't make it home this year to see Mum, though. New baby, and all...very busy."

"What a shame." It was obvious that he was prepared to launch into a three-hour monologue, so I rushed to make my exit. "See you next year, then," I called, tossing in another wave as I slipped through the doors from the Great Hall.

I comforted myself with the usual mantra while I walked to the dungeons.

'_He's graduating in two years...he's graduating in two years..._'

I'd used that one since I first became Potions Master two years before. Luckily, Hogwarts didn't possess too many McDougals; most of the students fancied conducting their assignments in silence after my unveiling of the 'nasty voice.' One scene over a badly concocted potion and I was ensured hundreds of successive quiet classes. Only not on Mondays and Thursdays.

The dungeons were even colder than the outdoors, if that was possible, and I was keen to fetch my things and retreat to the warmth of my home in Hogsmeade. I unlocked my classroom, as it provided the speediest route to my office, and was met with a sight that made me want to gouge out the eyes of my students with a spork. Not a single chair remained on all fours and several were missing legs here and there; potion ingredients laid in careless heaps and trails, knocked from their shelves; a yellowish liquid blanketed the floor and occasionally bubbled; a sign bearing the sentence 'Professor Snape sucks' along with a crude, unflattering drawing of myself hung over the chalkboard, and, apparently deciding that toilet paper was the newest fashionable method of interior decoration, those little wankers had unraveled it everywhere and most of it was soaked in the yellowish liquid. The smell of ammonia wafting past the doorway only strengthened my migraine.

This time I gave in to the urge to swear and splashed across the room to the chalkboard to tear down the sign. On the board in jagged handwriting I wrote: 'ESSAY--TWO ROLLS OF PARCHMENT ON THE STUPIDITY OF ADOLESCENTS AND ITS EFFECT ON MODERN SOCIETY.'

I smirked. "Happy holidays, heathens."

My triumph, however, was short-lived. I stared around me at my trashed classroom and the scowl returned to my face along with the twitch in my eye; I had to clean the mess up. Couldn't allow those brats to return with it still there. They could not win.

The chairs and potion ingredients weren't so tough. I only had to repair them and set them right and summon the ingredients back into their containers. The poster I burned, savoring the crackle of the flames as it collapsed into ashes before my eyes. I tackled the toilet paper next, relieved and slightly less angry since my task was nearing its end. I'd had it nearly all summoned into a heap by my feet when I remembered that some of it was covered in the yellowish liquid; by then it was too late. Splashes of it pelted my hands and forearms--I'd rolled up my sleeves--and soaked my shoes. Immediately I felt large boils spring up in said places and cursed my negligence. Bubotuber pus. Undiluted bubotuber pus. I changed the 'two' to 'three' on the board, fetched the items for which I'd come, and stormed from the dungeons.

Well, stormed the best I could with boils on my feet, anyway.

I thanked whoever was listening for the fact that Madam Pomfrey was still in her office that day.

"Professor Snape!" she chirped, as if my hands and arms looked perfectly normal, "why aren't you at home with your family?"

Deciding to omit the tale of the Snapes, I answered, "Forgot a couple things in my office." I showed her the book and my scarf; they pressed against my throbbing boils.

Her eyes fell upon my ailment and her smile vanished. "I'll see what I can do about those." She rushed off to locate an antidote in her supply cabinet.

Probably thought it was best not to ask.

The bursting, cleaning, and healing of my boils took nearly an hour. Seemed like more than two, though, at the sloth pace the woman collected the pus from the ruptured skin. At least I'd discovered the juvenile prank before term began. I don't think I could've dealt with the students' laughter and smug grins.

'_My essay will show them who holds the reins_,' I thought with a satisfied smile.

"All right, Professor!" trilled Madam Pomfrey as she closed the lids of her supply cabinet. "You're all set to go. Lucky thing I planned to go home later, huh?"

"Indeed," I replied, inspecting my hands. "Well, thanks very much."

She smiled. "You're welcome."

I decided to treat myself to a well-deserved trip to the Three Broomsticks after that ordeal. A nice mead or a mug of firewhiskey would make the classroom incident appear as insignificant as an ant on the sidewalk and might aid me to forget my Yuletide sorrows.

Strolling through Hogsmeade's main street lifted my mood. Being back in my cozy village soothed me, and fleetingly I even considered moving the essay back to two rolls of parchment. _Fleetingly_. Christmas was Hogsmeade's best time of year. It's like having a preferable side on which to take one's photograph. Hogsmeade in the summer, while still lovely and quaint, could not compare with its winter counterpart. The snow that laid in piles on roofs and stoops and had spread itself out over the lawns and streets like a crashing wave garnished the area like the green grass of summer never could. It wasn't dirty snow, either. Nothing about winter decorations in Hogsmeade ever looked dirty, whether it was a stream of red bows along an awning or a fir wreath tacked upon a door. It was too early in the day for the holiday lights to flick on, so they remained dormant in their lines and wraps (the poles, you know), awaiting dusk.

To my great displeasure, the Three Broomsticks was packed. For a moment, I thought of heading for the Hog's Head instead, but I remembered the odor of goats, heaved a sigh, and nudged my way to the front counter to place an order for a good, strong firewhiskey. A couple minutes later, I looked, my mug in hand, for a vacant table. I had no luck. Laughing, chatting, and shouting customers clogged both the aisles and tables and there was hardly a spare seat in the whole inn.

I decided to try my luck at the table-for-two in the front corner near a large window where a blonde witch sat sipping idly at a foaming mug of butterbeer. She stared out the window, daydreaming, and jumped in her seat when I dragged my chair from under the table. She gave an embarrassed giggle when she saw I was only another customer and a blush rose to her cheeks.

"You scared me," she muttered. Her accent was strange; an amalgam of French and British, though the French was dominant.

"Sorry," I said, indifferent. What did I care if I'd given some foreigner a fright?

I made myself comfortable in the chair--or somewhat so, at least--and fiddled with my mug's handle while plotting a better revenge on my students. Introducing a high-level potion appealed to me; I could give them each one chance to concoct it properly and if they failed, I'd make them write an expository on their failure...Or I could just make it a large part of their grade...

I paused, feeling the woman's eyes on me. I looked up to meet her curious stare.

"You were a Slytherin?" she asked with a slight smile.

I blinked. How would she know this? And why was she starting a conversation with me? Suddenly, the table of rowdy thugs didn't look so bad.

"Why do you ask?" I said suspiciously.

"Your scarf." She indicated it with her eyes. "It's a Hogwarts scarf, no?"

I blinked again. This woman was familiar with Hogwarts?

"It is, actually." I couldn't keep the bewilderment from my voice.

She smiled. "I have my old scarf as well. They're lovely on days like this." She touched the blue and bronze scarf that looped her neck; I hadn't noticed it before. A Ravenclaw.

But why had she attended Hogwarts? Why not the French school, Beauxbatons?

I debated whether or not to ask her, now that she'd roped me into the conversation, but I feared that if I talked to her too much she'd have me there all day. She seemed the type. I was glad when she next spoke, for she settled my curiosity without my having to say a word.

"I bet you're wondering why a French girl attended Hogwarts?" I neither confirmed nor denied this. With her slight smile, as though she was going to tell an amusing joke, she continued. "My mother felt that attending Beauxbatons would not be in my best interest."

"Wouldn't be in your best interest?" I repeated, cocking an eyebrow. I couldn't help myself.

"My father taught there. Probably still does, actually. He and my mother divorced when I was very small and she wanted neither of us to have anything to do with him." Her expression changed then, telling me that she'd wanted to meet her father. Still, I wondered why she was giving me her family history. Lucky for her, it was only me; what she was doing could endanger her.

"So your mother chose Hogwarts for you instead?"

She grinned and her face was alight with happiness. She wasn't likely to be seen on the cover of _Witch Weekly_, but she wasn't bad-looking. "Yes. My mother moved us as well, to be closer to Hogwarts and further from my father. She loved big cities and replaced Paris with London."

"You liked it there, then?" I said, only half-listening.

"Very much." She hadn't stopped smiling. "I definitely prefer it to Paris."

"Oh?" I was quickly losing interest and began formulating excuses to leave in my mind.

"Yeah. London is more...easygoing and the people are less critical of everything. They all seem so condescending in France. I wasn't treated with as much respect for being brought up in Britain. And"--she giggled, a memory coming to her--"a big thing with some is asking foreigners' opinions on the Eiffel Tower. A lot of the people I met don't seem to like it much. Mind you, I don't know how fond I'd be of a thousand-foot phallic symbol in _my _city, either."

This. This right here is a perfect example of my aforementioned reactions to her wit. Presently, I'm rolling my eyes, amused, but at the time I raised condescending eyebrows and eyed her as though she were a silly adolescent.

Because I made no remark to her penis-humor, she quieted down for a few minutes. I restarted the process of layering my revenge, enjoying my amusing daydream. In addition to a difficult potion, I planned to assign some required reading. Something thick with small print. I started running titles through my head only to be interrupted once again by my irritating table mate.

This time, her intrusion came in the form of humming. I have scarcely any tolerance for humming. The only person whom I do not snap at for humming is Albus Dumbledore, for obvious reasons. I cringed at her cheerful tune. I was definitely, after my trashed classroom incident, in the mood for snapping, but a better idea came to mind. Another pet peeve of mine--and hopefully of hers, I thought--is finger drumming. Softly at first, I drummed my fingers on the table's wooden surface. It didn't catch her attention right away--too absorbed in her humming and daydreaming, probably--but she heard it after a minute, once I'd tripled the volume. She stopped humming at once; a frown line appeared between her eyebrows and she stared back and forth at my drumming fingers and my face.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

I pretended she startled me out of thought. "Hmm?" I stopped drumming. "Could you repeat that? I couldn't _hear_ you properly." Not the most subtle way to go about it, but I was annoyed.

She paused before speaking, thinking. "Was I humming?" Oh, of course not. "I'm sorry. I don't even notice half the time." Yeah? Well, I do.

She fiddled with her cup instead and I returned to my thoughts. I wondered why she wasn't leaving; her mug was empty.

__

CLUNK!

I'd only listed two titles.

She bent down to retrieve her fallen mug and brushed it off. Again, she was embarrassed. "I've got horrible reflexes. I could never play Quidditch because of them," she explained.

"Do you often start and continue conversations with complete strangers?" I asked curtly. She stared, taken aback. I wouldn't have snapped at her if she would have just bloody _shut up_. Why she insisted on explaining her every mistake, I'll never know.

"I just wanted to break the silence," she said apologetically. "I don't get the chance to speak much with people my age during the day." How old was she, eighteen? Why would she assume we're the same age? But I wasn't buying her last statement. How could she not have the opportunity to speak with people her own age during the day? Hogsmeade was teeming with fresh Hogwarts graduates. Or _was _she a teenager? It's hard to tell with women. "I work at Honeydukes and you know how it is in there--in and out. Besides, I couldn't chat if I wanted to, being cashier and all. Except with the owners, of course, but they don't fancy talking with a twenty-something; they're up there in age."

So she was in her twenties, and her early ones by the looks of her. She _had_ been right, then. We _were_ about the same age.

She fished something out of the bag at her feet--a book--and tapped the cover. "I'll just read, then."

Ah, wonderful. I followed her lead and opened my own book. Curiosity as to what she was reading overcame me and I peered over the top of my book at the front cover. _So You Want to Become a Teacher in _Your_ Predicament, Eh_? I smirked. She wanted to be a teacher? _Now _I was interesting in talking to her. I had a gold mine of reasons to steer her toward another career path.

I tipped her book down with my index finger so the cover rested on the table.

"Yes?"

I smirked again. "I couldn't help but notice what you were reading."

She arched her eyebrows. "I'm sure you could have." Ah. Pay back for my rudeness.

"You really want to become a teacher?" I pressed.

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Because I have plenty of reasons for you to abandon this dream," I said.

She looked amused now. "Do you?"

"Yes," I continued confidently. "Students are incompetent, aggravating, stubborn, brainless little pillocks who have no respect whatsoever for their teachers, their classrooms, or costly school supplies."

"What makes you such an expert on students?" she challenged. She's a stubborn woman, Sophie. Can't be arsed to consider others' (correct) opinions. She always believes _she's_ got everything right.

I chuckled smugly. "I'm a teacher, naturally."

"Why don't you resign, then, if you hate your job so much?" she clipped. "Open up the field for those who _want_ it." The frown line returned to the space between her eyebrows; teaching was obviously a sensitive subject with her.

"It's not the job I hate--it's the students. Most of them, anyway."

"Why bother teaching, then? If you don't care about helping them?"

"I enjoy my subject," I told her. "And I _do_ like teaching those who can comprehend it."

She glared at me, visibly incensed. "Don't you offer _assistance_ to your students?"

"No."

"Well, why not?" she snapped. "_Good_ teachers help the students who don't understand."

"I'm sorry my teaching methods aren't up to your standards," I replied coolly. Who was this wannabe-professor to lecture me on my teaching, good or bad? As though _she_ could teach one of my classes. "I make my instructions very clear and if they can't follow them, the problem obviously lies with the students, not me."

She made a disgusted noise, shoved her book back into her bag and marched from the inn, pushing people on her way through. I watched her stalk up the street through the window.

As you can see, Sophie and I didn't have the best of beginnings.

O O O

Let's thank my reviewers!

Piper of Locksley -- We've discussed your review, pretty much, so I don't have much to say you haven't heard. ; )

Audrey Monk -- Thank you!

Megan


	3. Oy Vey

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Author's Note: About the underlining...that was done strictly to differentiate between Severus and Sophie's parts. Sophie does get to write a bit in the journal this chapter, as something important will happen to Severus in his present that leads from it. You'll see what I mean next chapter.

The 'Sevvie' thing...that was a joke. It's in there to point out just how disinclined he would be if anyone ever suggested that as a nickname. Mainly geared toward Mary-Sue authors, that joke was. A Deleterius joke. As you'll note, she addresses him by his proper name normally.

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Dedications: Again, yes.

For Kitty, who took the time to go over this chapter for me. You sure put up with a lot.

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Chapter 2: Oy Vey

On December twenty-first, Sophie and I met again. Of course, I didn't know she was called Sophie at this point in time; she'd never bothered to tell me her name. I'd actually taken to calling her 'the twit' in my head.

Strangely enough, our second meeting had something to do with the Three Broomsticks as well. Loosely, though. In desperate need of another strong drink--I don't even want to get into why--I left the house for my favorite pub. Unfortunately, a whole crowd of people had the same idea. There was a _line_ outside of the Three Broomsticks. I couldn't believe it. Furious, I turned on my heel and marched moodily toward the Hog's Head, dreading the aroma of goats and muttering nasty things under my breath. I hadn't even noticed that I was coming up on Honeydukes. Nor had I spotted the short-haired blonde witch leaning against its exterior wall. She must have seen me, though, because she called,

"On your way to ridicule a few students?"

I stopped walking and met her eyes. She gave the impression she was trying very hard not to laugh. I walked closer to her--the edge of the sidewalk on which she was standing--so I wouldn't have to cry out over the din of the crowd.

"Not today." I smirked, hoping to incense her. "Hogwarts students are off on holiday."

She rolled her eyes. I wondered where her earlier anger had gone. She seemed right disgusted with me at the end of our first meeting. Perhaps she really _was_ desperate for conversation.

"Where were you headed with such an attitude, anyway?" she asked curiously, folding her arms over her chest and reclining against the wall.

I groaned inwardly. Lassoed again!

"The Hog's Head," I replied. "I'd rather not, but I need a drink and the Three Broomsticks is packed."

She smiled. "I know how you feel. The old bartender should really give his place a good scrubbing."

Nobody would say this to him, however, no matter how rancid his bar smelled. The bartender was an easily angered man.

She hesitated before speaking again, appearing to be making a decision. "I can offer you a bit of free sweets if you'd like instead. My bosses have gone home for the day."

Her gesture surprised me. "I thought I was a cruel, horrible teacher? Why would you offer sweets to _me_?"

She shrugged. "You're someone to talk to, I suppose. It's not like I can change the way you run your class, is it?" Wish she'd say that now.

"Too right. So are you going to let me in?" I figured I should accept her offer, especially as she expected me to stay and chat. She probably only offered because she could tell she was losing my attention.

She held the door open for me and as I entered she said, "A few manners would do you good, you know."

I turned to meet her dark brown eyes. It was the first time I took notice of their color. "And shutting your mouth once in a while would do you good, as well." Again, I hadn't meant to be harsh with her--mostly because she was offering me candy--, but I can't stand it when I'm told how to behave. Thankfully, she's learned to keep most of her irritating suggestions to herself since. As a result, I'm much kinder to her.

For a second, she looked shocked--and a little hurt, truthfully--but she proceeded as though I'd said nothing. I experienced a twinge of unanticipated guilt.

I inhaled the overly sweet scent of hundreds of candies combined and felt a rush of contentment and excitement. As a schoolboy, I'd loved going to Hogsmeade and to Honeydukes in particular. I have many fond memories of testing treats in the shop. Sophie's bosses had owned it during my Hogwarts years and were very generous toward children.

Sophie leaned against a sturdy-looking display of lollipops and muttered--avoiding eye contact--

"You can choose whatever you like."

When I saw the look on her face--which she was failing spectacularly to hide--I didn't want to take the candy anymore. I probably only felt remorseful because I was in an odd mood that day. Fine, fine--I _will_ get into it, then. I'd taken a flip through my mother's old photo albums--being her only living relative, most of her possessions went to me when she died--and adopted my usual, bitter Yuletide spirits. Thinking about my family--_really _thinking about them, not just in passing--always put me in a delicate emotional state. I may not appear very kind or sensitive from what you've read (all right, I'm very scarcely sensitive), but my past pains me nonetheless.

I pretended to scan the shelves for sweets while thinking of a way to cheer her up. There was no reason for both of us to be in terrible moods. I didn't want to apologize outright. I'm no good with apologies. They never come out sounding sincere; it's better for me to avoid them entirely. I chose a better way to lift her mood, to get her talking to me again. I'd at least let her pull a McDougal if she supplied me with sugar.

"So--er--what's your name, anyway?" There. That wasn't so difficult. And it was as close to an apology as I was willing to give her--friendly conversation.

She looked up at me and almost smiled. "Sophie."

"You have a surname to go with that?" I asked, lifting a package of ice mice from the shelf.

She giggled, startlingly happy again. "Yes. Sorry. LeBrun. Sophie LeBrun." She sounded so distinctly French when saying her name. Not a trace remained of the British part of her accent. "What about you?"

"Severus Snape. Don't even think about shortening it," I added as an afterthought. Who was more likely than she to christen me with a horrible nickname?

A grin parted her lips. "Must you suck the fun from everything?"

"It's not as though my name even _has_ decent shortenings," I pointed out.

"Oh, I don't know." I saw a cheeky smile playing at her lips. "I rather like 'Sevvie'."

I saw no humor in this. Where did she get the idea she had such a privilege, anyway?

"And you know what _I_ rather like?" I began to retort.

She raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to hear this? Is it rude?" She lifted herself up to sit on the front counter, as Honeydukes had no customers at the moment. It was uncharacteristically dead for the shop. She scooped a handful of chocolate-covered almonds from a large container in front of the check-out counter and took to tossing them in her mouth.

"No," I said, and tore the top off my box of ice mice. "I was going to suggest that I call you 'Phi' in return, like the proportion." I hoped this would extinguish her love for that horrible nickname she'd chosen for me.

She was so surprised at my suggestion that she met my eyes, losing concentration on her almond, and the airborne legume clonked her on the head. She rubbed the spot and tossed the almond to the floor, where I assumed she'd sweep it up later.

"You know about the divine proportion?" She looked impressed. "I didn't know wizards bothered with maths."

I shrugged, silencing a squeaking sugar mouse in my mouth. "Came across it by chance," I replied thickly (the mouse, you know).

"Well, I wouldn't mind being called 'Phi' at all. After all, PHI is a perfect proportion and is beautiful when applied to artwork. You addressing me as such would only give me a much needed ego boost."

Damn. She wasn't supposed to like the name. "I'm afraid you won't be receiving that boost, Ms. LeBrun"--I nearly smiled then--"because I don't do diminutives. I don't accept them for myself or use them for others. I only joked about PHI to change your mind about"--I grimaced--"_Sevvie_."

"I'll have to work on that, then," she said in a yawn, leaning backward to stretch. She drew her knees to her chest and rested her head on them.

This seemed my cue to leave. Sophie was tired and probably wouldn't do much of the talking as a result. There was no way I would act as the glue of the conversation.

I cleared my throat to draw her attention. Groggily, she responded. "Hmm?" She didn't even lift her head.

"I've got to go," I said, tucking the half-empty box of ice mice into my robe pocket. "Thanks for my--er--" I tapped my pocket in place of using the name of the sweets, unable to act fully politely.

Her head rose from her knees immediately; she seemed disappointed to hear I was leaving. I had no idea what she saw in having conversations with me. But we'll get to that later.

"You're welcome." She smiled her wonderful smile at me. "Good-bye." She didn't stop watching me as I left the shop.

I made for the door, sliding a bit on her damn almond.

"Severus?" she called tentatively. I looked over at her. She was nervous, something I hadn't seen from her before.

"Yes?"

She averted her gaze to her feet, which she swung back and forth in front of the counter. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?" Her cheeks went cherry red. I blushed as well. This caught me _way_ off guard. "Just at my house. We don't have to go to a restaurant, or anything..." I was in too much shock to reply. She mistook it for hesitation and added, "Just as friends, even, if you'd like. Please? It's...well...my holiday's going to be pretty lonely this year. Mum's gone to--"

"Yes, Sophie, yes. All right," I heard myself reply with a slight quiver in my tone, still redder than I'd been in my life. She sighed, immensely relieved. I couldn't for the life of me fathom why she'd asked me to dinner. I'm not the most attractive man she could've chosen--trust me, she could've gotten much nicer-looking men than me--, I'm not very friendly, or kind, or loving, either. I've--even now--only got a soft spot for her.

Oh, no he hasn't. He's nicer in general. He just doesn't want to admit it. This is Sophie, by the way, stealing Severus's diary. Oh, sorry--he nudged me--_journal_.

There. Woman's safely contained in my arms now. We won't be hearing from her anytime soon.

Ha! Wrestled it from him. I've threatened him sufficiently and he's agreed to let me give my take on asking him out. Let me tell you, it was one of the bravest things I've ever done. I was so scared he'd say no and leave me to eat dinner alone--again. Or that he'd snap at me. It wouldn't have been a surprise if he had. Aww. He's just called me love and said even he wouldn't have been that cruel. Got a lovely kiss as well. All right. Back to December twenty-first. I fancied him. I have no idea what drew me to him in the beginning, but something told me to persist with him. It was difficult at times because of his temper and rudeness, but he had his tender moments. I think I've known all along what a wonderful, loving person he is on the inside. Oh--haha, he says I'm a biased, barmy woman and he's nothing of the sort. (Again, that's what he wants you to think!)

Gave her a good whack with my pillow. She was getting to far ahead in the story, anyway, and much too sentimental. Women. So, where were we? Oh, yes. Why I'm not good enough for Sophie.

It's Sophie again. He is _plenty_ good for me! I really wish he had more self-worth. There's nothing wrong with him at all! Except, of course, his lack of self-worth. And his rudeness. His temper can also be a bit on the nasty side if I...oh dear. He's coming at me with a pillow. I'd better go.

I've jinxed the pillows to whack Sophie if she comes too close. She says this isn't fair, that she wants to write too, and that I shouldn't be so cruel to a pregnant woman. But they're only pillows and I haven't aimed them at her belly, or anything. She's just a whiner.

Before moving on to our parting dialogue and the description of our first dinner together, I'd like to touch upon my response to Sophie's offer. (Sophie's just lunged toward me and all the pillows went for her at once. It was brilliant.) Two factors I've mentioned before play large parts in my answer. Most importantly was my well-hidden fondness for her. Though I didn't acknowledge it until later, it wasn't only Sophie's forced conversations and free ice mice that kept us talking. She has qualities of which I didn't know I was fond and utilized them to her advantage. She's naturally friendly and this became the glue of our early relationship. I certainly wouldn't have had the gall to go up to a woman and begin a conversation out of the blue. Not that I was _looking_ for a woman. Sophie reeled me in; she's the looker, in more ways than one. She's bravely assertive, crosses personal boundaries as though they're T's in an essay, and possesses a spunky, in-your-face sort of personality. Reasons such as these convinced me that a dinner with Sophie LeBrun would prove most entertaining. Interesting, as well. She's completely the opposite from me in so many--

__

Interesting? He accepted my date offer because he thought it would be _interesting_? He's just lucky it went well, is all I have to say. Dammit, he's jinxing the pillows again.

She's fled the room for the moment, but she'll find another way to get past the pillows. I'm going to try to cram in as much as possible before she does. All right. Back to the scene in Honeydukes. I was dumbstruck. Sophie was the first person to ever ask me on a date. In Hogwarts, I repulsed the female population. I didn't object to the idea of dating, but after four years of rejection and disappointment (I hadn't developed an interest in girls until third year), the subject of courting only brought a scowl to my face. Sophie's interest in me was puzzling, especially as I hadn't gone out of my way to show her kindness.

"You live in Hogsmeade, right?" I asked. Our eyes met for an instant before mine flickered over to a display of fudge to Sophie's right.

"Yes." She watched herself scuff a shoe on the tile. "It's a tiny white house with a blue roof and trim. I live on the end of Hydrangea Lane." She blushed.

The flower streets. She didn't make much money, then. The expensive sections of Hogsmeade were the four perimeter streets named after the Hogwarts founders. Next came the eight streets bearing the titles of former Ministers of Magic. I live on Artemisia Lufkin Avenue. The houses of middle value were on sixteen streets with names of famous wizard shops. Sophie's area came next. There were thirty-two streets with flower names in Hogsmeade. The worst section was named for magical creatures; it consisted of sixty-four streets.

For once, I didn't make a snide remark. It was the perfect invitation, her blush, but not the perfect time. She was still a bit jittery from her daring offer and--I didn't find this out until later--she takes great offense when her monetary status is even _joked_ about.

"What time should I come by?" This seemed more surreal by the second. What the bloody hell was I doing? I promised myself then I'd chuck those photo albums into the attic to avoid similar situations in the future.

She appeared to be calculating in her head. "Er...well, it's one now and I'm off at four...six-thirty?" She arched her eyebrows, passing the power of question answering to me.

"Yeah. Er...six-thirty is fine for me." I can't believe that was _me_ speaking. I'm the eloquent, quick-witted one and a _woman_ had stripped this from me. (Sophie: Thinks a lot of himself, yeah?)

"Is there anything you're allergic to, or don't like...?"

"No. Anything's fine." I hoped she'd make something I like. I'd only told her anything would do so I didn't come off as picky and annoying.

"I think that's everything," she said, smiling. "I've just got three more hellish hours _here_."

"Hellish hours? You've had no customers for over a half hour!"

She glanced toward the door. "Oh. Well, when you leave I'm turning the sign back around." She grinned.

I raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?" What sign?

She pointed to the open/closed sign on the door. The side reading 'open' was visible to us. She grinned again. "I didn't want customers intruding on our conversation, so I flipped the sign on our way in."

Brilliant, no?

Go away, Sophie. We're almost to the end of the Honeydukes scene.

Wah, wah, wah. 'Go away, Sophie.' I'll go away, all right. Right into the arms of a man who _appreciates_ me. Hmph.

She's always got to be _right _beside me, or _in my lap_...stop your smug grinning!

He knows that's where he wants me. I'm very cuddly and warm.

Just for that, your pillow can keep you warm tonight.

You'd miss me too much.

Sophie, I wouldn't mind if you slept on the _roof_.

So you _say_. You'd have no one to (Severus: You'll thank me some day for marking that out.)

Sophie's agreed to sit quietly in my lap and let me finish writing. Until she comes across something interesting on which to comment, of course.

"Don't the villagers notice?" I asked incredulously. "Won't they inform the owners of the random closings?" I am not one to be frivolous with a job position. Sophie's behavior shocked me.

"Oh, they're used to it," she said with a casual wave of her hand. "Besides, they wouldn't dare say anything."

I steepled an eyebrow. With what sort of violent woman had I just agreed to dine? "Wouldn't they?"

"I mix the fudge, you know. And many of the other unpackaged candies." A grin started. "I give loads of free samples, anyway. Most don't want to chance a new employee who might not be so kind."

"Kind? You've threatened to add things to their sweets!"

She shook her head. "I haven't. They just know who mixes their candy." She gave her slight smile.

"Now I know to be in your good graces when you're cooking for me," I said, amused.

She laughed. "Indeed. You wouldn't want my hand to slip over your evening pumpkin juice, would you?"

I smirked. "Nor mine over yours, Sophie."

Two and a half hours later, I left my house for Sophie's place. (You see, I needed a good bit of time for my walk if I wanted to make it to Sophie's on time. The flower streets are a long way from my house. Ow! She's just slapped me! I have some peace to write now, at least. She's stormed from the room.) I'd spent the majority of the time packing away my mother's photo albums, sealing the boxes securely, and hauling them up to my attic.

Seeing Hydrangea Lane for the first time surprised me. It wasn't dirty or trashy at all, as I had envisioned it. All of the houses, though a good deal smaller than mine, were beautiful and quaint. And there were hydrangeas everywhere. I'd forgotten this about the flower streets; the only flowers allowed were those of the street's namesake. There were purple, yellow, green, pink, and blue bushy flowers in every garden, around bushes and trees, and along fences. Hydrangea Lane was unexpectedly charming.

Sophie's house, though I may be slightly biased, was the nicest of all. I had no idea why she'd blushed before. More than one hundred feet of newly cut grass stretched from the house to the street with an enormous beech tree halfway into the yard. Other various trees stood randomly about the lawn, including Douglas firs, linden oaks, and a white birch. The flowers were a burst of bright purple; they trailed along a black iron fence dividing her yard from the neighbor's and wrapped around a circular, stone patio beneath the beech tree. Over near the birch tree was a small pond with a central, spraying fountain. A short wooden bridge linked the grass above the spot where the pond met a thin trail of water running from a source that seemed to be beneath part of the house. Bushes and other various greens looped around the pond. Rocks lined the trail of water coming from under the house. On the patio beneath the beech tree were potted hydrangeas, white wicker chairs, and glass-topped tables where one could sit in the shade and admire the rest of the spacious yard. Sophie must have hired a landscaper, because the oval trim around the trees and bushes was flawless.

The lower half of the house, the part from which the water flowed, was covered in thick, green ivy. Wide stone steps led to another patio in front of the door. The tiny staircase had a black iron rail on one side and large, spongy hydrangea flowers on the other. I couldn't have counted the hydrangeas and bushes in her yard. Wicker of the same style was on the second patio as well, inside an enclosure of bushes. Two columns supported an awning over the front door. From the awning hung a sign saying 'Home Sweet Home' in fancy script, with a cluster of painted hydrangeas on either end. Even her front doors were lovely--white French. I spotted two hanging plants on either side of the doors while I waited for Sophie to answer the bell.

The door swung open and Sophie stood before me wearing a stained, white apron over jeans and a tan turtleneck. Her cheeks flushed from the sudden cold. She beckoned me in with a wave of a plastic stirring spoon.

"Hurry up. It's freezing."

I stepped over the threshold and not a moment later she'd shut and locked the door behind me.

"Why isn't there snow in your yard? It's quite warm out there, actually." But not on that patio. As soon as I'd climbed up those steps, the cold found me.

She giggled. "Mum. She couldn't bear the thought of losing her plants to a blizzard, so she cast heating charms before she left. The snow melts before it has a chance to hit the yard; there's been nothing but rain here."

"Where'd your mum go?"

Sophie sighed. "My grandmum's not well. She went back to France to visit her in the hospital. I don't think she's going to be with us much longer."

Being no good at offering comfort for these sorts of things, I changed the topic.

"Your mum lives with you, then?"

She nodded, smiling. I was glad for the switch to a happier subject. "We've lived here together since I left Hogwarts. Mum agreed to give up her flat in the city when I showed her how nice the property is. We had very little to add to the yard; only a few oaks and the fountain."

"Your yard is, erm, quite nice," I complimented, feeling stupid for thinking badly of the flower streets. "It's much, er, nicer than mine. I don't put in too much effort."

She beamed. "Thanks. I'm the gardener, you know." She dropped her gaze to the floor, feigning embarrassment. She was obviously trying to impress me. "I work in the yard all the time. I love the outdoors."

"You've done a"--I coughed; what I was about to say felt odd--"wonderful job." There was nothing on which to critique her. A compliment, awkward though it was, was my only option.

She grinned, blushing. Her act had achieved the desired results. "Let's go eat. Everything's ready."

She led me from the small, screen room I'd first entered through a wood paneled sitting room with antique lamps and furniture atop a Persian carpet. A short, green staircase descended to the right into her cutesy dining room. A large collection of blue willow china plates bordered the walls on shelves and lined the mantle above the red brick fireplace. Frilly white curtains hung in front of the windows, which composed nearly all of the walls touching the yard. Either she or her mother had a fondness for doilies that she made very clear; they hung over the edges of the mantle and shelves and cushioned the table lamps. And just when I thought nothing could top the doilies, I saw the salt and pepper shakers--brown and white bunnies.

"It's very..." I struggled to find a polite word.

"Old woman?" tried Sophie with a grin. Reads my mind, that woman does. "I know. It was all Mum's doing. She's not old, even, really...Anyway."

She pulled a chair out for me at the lengthy mahogany dining table. I wasn't used to such treatment. At home, I pulled and pushed my own chairs in and out. Even stranger was that the woman did it for the man, not the other way around. I wondered if I should do the same for her (from where had this concern come?) but decided it would be odd to abandon my waiting chair to cross the room.

Oooh! I want to explain the thoughtfulness!

I thought you were angry with me?

Well, after you described my house so nicely, I decided to love you again. Now, get your hand away from my quill!

How did you know about that? You just came back in here!

You're very easy to spy on, my darling.

Cut the pet names and hurry up with your explanation.

Touchy, touchy. (But he won't be tonight after that!) All right! I finally get to reveal him as the fluffy, caring person he is!

You liken me to a powder puff, Sophie.

Haha! Thanks for the idea, Severus! My fluffy little powder puff!

I'm going to sic the pillows on you.

Aww, why so violent, Fluffy? Ahh! Call them off!

Whew. They're gone now. Now I can talk about Fluffy. (And he can't see I've called him so, because I've turned away from him.) As Severus said before, I was the first person ever to ask him out. And being the first person, he felt obligated to treat me decently, however bad-tempered and ill-mannered he might be. He should, anyway, as I made him a lovely dinner that night.

You mean, however annoying and invasive I thought you were?

Is it so bad that a stranger could want to have a conversation with you?

Yes.

And tell you that you run your class terribly?

Nice try, Sophie. Really subtle. I run my class just perfectly, thanks.

So your students hate you...why?

They hate me because I properly punish them and teach them the lessons their parents should've.

I've seen you give a student a zero because you said his potion looked orange-red rather than red-orange. I think _you_ need to be taught the lesson!

That was Philips. He deserved it.

Oh? Tell me why, love.

I don't need to defend myself. If I say he deserved it, he deserved it. That should be enough for you, woman.

Woman? Where do you get off thinking you can address me so? A woman I may be, but I have a name! And this is not the nineteenth century; you can't speak to me like I'm some sort of servant! I'm your fiancée! Back yourself up on tormenting that poor boy, or I'll think you're even more unfair than I already do.

Poor boy? Pah. Everyone's the victim to you, Sophie, aren't they? I bet you wouldn't think he's such a 'poor boy' if it were _your_ classroom he and his wanker Gryffindor mates had trashed! He deserved a good beating rather than the punishment he received.

A beating? You honestly believe children should be beaten?

For some things, _yes_!

Just because your horrible parents spanked you as a child doesn't mean everyone else should receive the same punishment! Spankings don't teach children anything! You are not punishing our child that way EVER.

It better not put a toe out of line, then.

If you _ever_ hit my child, I'll be gone so fast--

__

Your child? Made it all by yourself, did you?

I _thought_ I made it with a wonderful man I love, but apparently not!

I've got such a headache. She chucked the journal at me and ran out of the bedroom. I can hear her crying in the living room. I feel...awful. I hadn't meant to make her cry. She knows I wouldn't ever hit my baby. I only said those things because I was angry about those brats trashing my room, and she worked me all up defending them. I wish she wouldn't take me so seriously all the time. She knows how I get when she annoys me. Well, I'm going to go and sort things out with her. I'll finish the dinner scene in the morning.

O O O

So...if you've paid attention to Snape's mentionings of his family and the circumstances under which his father left, you might be on your way to figuring out the significant bit in the next chapter, based on his and Sophie's argument.

Time to thank the reviewers!

Piper of Locksley - Like that teacher on Daria, right? Heh. Rock your rocks, eh? Aren't rocks, by definition, rocks already? What for do they need this extra rocking? (It's 12: 12 AM. I'm sure you understand.)

Cilverblood - You're so mean to Billy! And you're avoiding MSN AGAIN. You'd better be on tomorrow.

Megan


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